


(it’s a thing to see) when a boy comes home

by queendomcome



Series: stories they tell themselves (about how history happened) [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen, POV Ned Stark, Rickard Stark's A+ Parenting, ned is just trying his best, ned stark has a lot of feelings, ned stark is a sweet sad cinnamon roll, the continuing adventures of the dead ladies club, to paraphrase arya stark: the women are important too, you can take the boy out of the north but you can’t take the north out of the boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:14:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29255778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queendomcome/pseuds/queendomcome
Summary: “Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all your heart.” - Marcus AureliusAfter everything that had happened, the war was an inevitable outcome. In the midst of rebellion, the quiet wolf struggles to protect his people and hold his family together. He mostly succeeds.Or: The continuing adventures of the dead ladies club featuring unreliable narrator Ned Stark.
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Lyarra Stark & Ned Stark, Lynesse Hightower & Ned Stark, Ned Stark & Edda Arryn
Series: stories they tell themselves (about how history happened) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564801
Comments: 16
Kudos: 16





	(it’s a thing to see) when a boy comes home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Brandon dead and the war begun, Ned marches to Riverrun to wed Lord Tully’s daughter in his brother’s stead. The women in his life have things to say about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been working on this story for nearly a year. And after so many starts and stops, deleted drafts, and days spent forcing my fingers to work with my brain, the words just started pouring out. 
> 
> _Pouring_.
> 
> Originally this chapter was supposed to be a short prologue. But it was like a dam broke and I could not stop writing. I missed this world and this incarnation of these characters. And I found that, despite this being from Ned’s point of view, these women still had quite a lot to say.
> 
> So. Here we are with the continuing adventures of the dead ladies club, featuring Ned Stark.
> 
> P.S. THANK YOU to everyone who has liked/followed/commented and generally continued to retain interest in this little world of mine. Whenever I was ready to throw in the towel after another failed draft, I thought of you and made myself keep going.

The end of the his eldest brother’s life and the start of Ned’s begins with the same song.

With a silver fist and a shield of bronze, a falcon, an eagle, and a wolf confront a dragon in his den; demanding the return of a maiden wreathed in winter roses. The ashes of Northmen, a call to arms, and three kingdoms rising up against a dragon’s tyranny.

And as his father calls up his banners, Ned stares up at the heart tree and prays to the old gods for their song to end on a sweeter note than it began.

—-

In the map room, with its long, scarred table and rough bronze pieces, Ned sits and waits. Where he had once been a shy, quiet boy, he was now considered a patient and somber man. Once judged and found wanting, Ned was now a steady, welcome presence among a people who had been rocked with the loss of their heir. The change was jarring.

 _“A son of House Stark twice over,” his father had always been fond of saying, “and not a drop of_ ulveblod _in you, my boy._ It had hurt, every time, knowing that Rickard wished for him to be someone other than himself. Now, though, the memory weighs on him guiltily. After all, what good had the _ulveblod_ done for Brandon when he had been choking to death in a bid to save his men?

Ned shakes his head to clear it; does his best to think of other things. Lord Manderly’s large hand soft on Father’s shoulder as he speaks in gentle tones. The swish of Lady Barbrey’s skirts as she brushes past him, her mouth set in a firm line and her eyes rimmed in red. Closes his eyes and listens to the sound of plates and mugs being cleared; fights the urge to fidget. Waits. 

Lord Manderly finally takes his leave and the map room is finally empty, save Ned and his father. He waits. He knows Brandon would have spoken up by now. If not during the meeting, then after. Would have refused to wait patiently; would have dismissed all the lords and ladies with a single look. But Ned is not Brandon, Lyanna, or Benjen and after spending half his life fostering in the Vale, he knows the value of staying still while others would forge ahead.

”Yes?” Father had made it plain to him, the night they received the news of Brandon’s death, that he had no time to hold Ned’s hand. There was no time for comfort or explanations. Ned was a man and Rickard expected him to act like one.

“Was there something you needed?”

“You should send me to lead our troops into Gulltown.”

Breathes. Unlocks his jaw and lets his shoulders drop. Waits. Tries to imagine himself a wolf, waiting for the opportunity to strike, and not a rabbit, cowering in the underbrush. Finally, _finally_ his father motions for him to continue.

”I know the lay of the land, the people.” Ned had begun crafting his argument since his father made the announcement. Lord Arryn needed aid against the loyalists in Gulltown and Rickard would lead the gathered troops to the fighting by way of Widow’s Watch. “I can...”

”You can do as you are told, son.” Ned clenches his fists, bites the inside of his cheek. “You know nothing of war, of _your_ people. Visiting taverns and dragging Lord Baratheon from brothels is not the same as knowing anything.”

He can feel his body grow hot. He knows there is an ugly flush spreading from his chest, crawling up his neck. In that moment he hates himself, his father, _Brandon_. This was something he could do. He had been so sure he could finally make his father listen. But he is not Brandon. Or Lyanna. Or even Benjen. So Ned smooths his clenched fists over the rough fabric of his trousers, turns on his heel, and walks out without another word.

If _Lord Stark_ has no need for his counsel, then he will be silent.

—-

With the disaster at Harrenhal fresh in his mind and against their parents’ wishes, Brandon had raced off to the capital with a handful of close companions. They were all dead now save Lord Glover’s heir, Erena, who had been imprisoned in the Black Cells.

Ned’s father would have been dead too, had he not heeded his lady wife’s pleading and refused to answer King Aerys’s summons. Not satisfied with the deaths of four men, among them Jon’s nephew, the king had demanded Lord Arryn deliver to him the heads of his wards and deliver his oldest son to King’s Landing as a hostage. Furious, Jon had instead raised his banners in solidarity with the North and prepared for war.

It was that small spark, spurred by honor, which grew into a raging fire that plunged the whole of the realm into war.

Unlike the North, both the Vale and the Stormlands were divided. While his father gathered the men and women available to him and set out for Gulltown, Ned was left behind to wait. Once the remaining Northern Houses arrived in Winterfell, he would lead them to Riverrun where the army would reform and celebrate the quelling of the loyalists with a wedding. _Ned’s wedding_.

He had been relieved to learn that Lyn, _Lady Arryn_ , had been smuggled out of the Eyrie with her children. That relief had quickly soured to dismay when her raven had arrived, announcing her safe arrival in Riverrun and the beginning of negotiations with Lord Tully. Lynesse, _sharp and bright and quick_ , was never one to let an opportunity slip through her fingers. And it didn’t take a seer to know what Lord Tully would ask for in return for his support of the rebellion.

Ned knew he would be offered up as bridegroom just as certainly he knew he would be an utterly disappointing replacement.

It _shamed_ him. Poor Lady Catelyn, losing her betrothed in nearly the same breath as being saddled with Brandon’s less handsome, less charming, less _everything_ brother. Poor Lady Catelyn, not allowed a moment to mourn. For her father would have the heir to Winterfell for his daughter no matter what it might cost.

Worse still, he made the mistake of opening his mouth and spilling his worries at his mother’s feet the moment his father had disappeared from sight.

“ _Cuilean_?”

He knows he shouldn’t hide from her. That it is childish and cowardly to hide from his mother. And still, Ned cannot help but bury his head in his hands and hope the ground beneath the heart tree swallows him whole.

“ _Cuilean_? Puppy? Ned?!” His mother’s voice rings out through the godswood as she strides through the mud and slush. She has not had a moment of peace from the moment Brandon had rushed off in a bid to retrieve their sister. As soon as its heir had disappeared from sight, the North had begun to prepare for war. Mother had been at the forefront of all the preparations, her ladies in tight formation around her.

While Father counted his troops, studied maps, and planned for future battles, Mother had done everything to ensure those plans could come smoothly to fruition. There were ravens to be sent and supplies to organize. Lords and ladies needed to be housed in the keep and their people needed to be settled in the temporary camps erected. Before the sun rose and long after it set, there was work to be done. Bandages boiled, sun dried, and rolled. _Losgadh fìon_ to be bottled for transport. Milk of poppy to be distilled, salves to be prepared, and prayers to be offered to the old gods. 

And yet, here he was, troops readied for the march to the Riverlands, hiding from his mother like a naughty child. Making her search him out even as she rubbed the grit out of her eyes, looking dead on her feet. 

_An seo, màthair_! I’m over here, mother.” 

She sank down beside him and ran her fingers through his hair, just as she had done a hundred times before. In turn he leaned into her touch and only barely resisted the urge to lay his head in her lap, just as he had done a hundred times before. “Praying, my _cuilean_? Or hiding?” Ned could feel his face grow hot as those sharp grey eyes met his own. Knew his flushed face gave away his embarrassment, no matter how stoic he kept his expression. “Hiding, then. Hiding when you know there is not a place in the North that you could go that I would not find you.” 

“You look tired, _màthair_. You should be resting, not tromping all over the keep looking for me.” 

Lyarra scoffed. “You cannot get out of this, Ned,” her voice hardened as her hand dipped into the leather pouch attached to her belt of keys, “I am your mother and this is my duty. Just as it is your duty to listen to me.” 

Having found what she had been searching for, his mother placed a small tin in his palms. He took it from her gently, carefully, as if were an animal that might bite him. 

“Now that I have found you, let us talk about your wedding night.”

He groaned, actually groaned, and shot a glance at the heart tree as if one of the silent faces might intercede. After shooting him a look that could have frozen the hot springs, his mother pretended she hadn’t heard him and continued on.

“Your lady wife is going to be warm and lovely and mostly naked...”

“Father...”

“I bedded your father for the first time, once, and you are going to _listen to me_ , Eddard Stark. You will listen to me, just as you are going to listen to your lady wife, and you are going to forget anything your father or Brandon or _Robert bloody Baratheon_ might have told you.”

Ned stared at his mother, embarrassment warring with pride. Shoulders squared, back straight, eyes as hard as stone. There wasn’t a lady like her in all of Westeros, not even in the North. Having made it clear she would not be swayed from her course, he pocketed the little tin of beeswax and clove oil and listened. Told himself that, if nothing else, he would not shame his lady wife. And, by doing so, would not shame his mother.

—-

On the Kingsroad, the days bleed one into the other. The horses stirred up snow and hard packed earth, leaving the wagons and foot soldiers to pick their way through a grey, half frozen mess. For days there had been grumbling from a contingent loyal to House Umber. They wanted their dogs, their sleds, and no amount of patient explaining that both would be useless by the time they crossed the Neck had quieted them. It hadn’t been until he’d snapped, threatened to make them pave the whole of the Kingsroad from Queenscrown to Moat Cailin, that they finally stopped.

When the whispers started again, it was to speculate that their Ned might _finally_ relax once he had bedded his pretty Tully bride.

After that, he does what he can to keep his anger from boiling over. Instead, he never stays long in one place. Checking in with scouts as they slip in and out of formation. Speaking with youngest soldiers the North has to offer; men and women who have just barely left childhood behind. Claps shoulders, checks that their feet are warm and dry in their boots, gives a soft word of encouragement as their excitement fades into exhaustion. There is always someone to talk to: cooks and lords, blacksmiths and healers. These are his father’s people, _his_ people, and after half a lifetime away in the South, Ned feels he needs to reacquaint himself with them. So he does.

And if it means he can avoid the whispers and sly looks and japes at his expense, then so much the better.

He finds, however, that as the distance to Riverrun grows shorter, that the gossip gives way to genuine concern. Apparently these Northerners are keen to fill in any gaps in his southron education. Which is how he comes to find himself penned in between Lady Maege and a supply cart, listening to the fearsome, battle hardened warrior explain how best to take the future Lady Stark to bed.

“The best way to ensure heirs,” Maege says solemnly, “is to see that your little wife enjoys herself. No doubt it’ll take some doing, what with all the horseshit those septas filled her head with. But, my lord, if you do your duty, she will do her’s.”

Ned contemplates riding out into the marshes and letting the muck drag him down. Instead, he keeps riding, and with every step closer to Riverrun a bone deep sense of dread grows.

—-

They arrive at Riverrun just behind the last of Robert’s troops, a fortnight behind the army led by his father and Jon. Banners flutter in the wind, marking camp boundaries, and everywhere he turns he can find a guard in a fish helm patrolling. The Westerlands have yet to declare for either side and the rivermen are on edge. Everyone knows that Lord Lannister’s son is little more than Aerys’s hostage, white cloak nonwithstanding, and no one knows how that might sway his decisions as the war rages on.

It takes nearly three days before he can fully wash off the mud and sweat from the road. There’s camp to set and people to speak too. With Father locked away with Lord Tully, Jon, and Robert, Ned finds himself saddled with more tasks than hours in the day. He’d resent it, just a little, except that he is grateful for the excuse to ignore Lady Tully and her daughter without looking like a graceless, borish fool.

“Ned! Neddie!”

A little voice, sharp and sweet, rings out as he slips out of the castle. Ned can’t help the way his heart squeezes and his shoulders sag in relief at the sight of little Edda Arryn, all of four, picking up her skirts so that she can run toward him. 

“Little chick!” He swings her up into his arms before she can collide with his knees, sharing the barest of smiles with Lyn over her head. Ned knows he should scold her, just a little, for running through the crowded bailey, but he can’t bring himself to care. “How is my favorite girl? Are you being good for your mother?” 

“Good enough,” Lynesse replies as Edda starts some breathless story about _horses, Neddie_ and _mud_ , and _so much water_ and _Mama says_. “Jon managed to get us out of the Vale before the fighting started. You know how all whispers eventually reach the high tower; Father sent word of...of what was brewing. We had some time to prepare before Jon called his banners.”

Her cornflower blue eyes flash, guilty but defiant, before she looks down to adjust the babe wrapped up against her chest. The last time he had seen her, that babe had been the slightest little swell at her middle. Now he was eight, maybe nine, moons along; downy pale blonde hair wispy on his head, big blue eyes, and round rosy cheeks. Ned had been there for Jason’s birth, had held Lyn’s hand during Edda’s, but Harrenhal and the everything after had kept him from being there for Hugo’s.

The little chick in his arms keeps chirping away, even as he shifts her carefully on his hip, and it untwists something inside him. “I am glad of it. Truly.” That they were safe; that Jon had been able to keep his wife and children safe. Lyanna was lost to them, Brandon dead, but at least the family of his heart was safe and sound.

“I need to go meet with Lady Tully, finalize the plans for the weddings. I thought I would find the septa on my way. This one,” she shoots a pointed look at her daughter, “has a great many opinions about her proxy marriage. Makes it very difficult to get anything done.”

“I can take her, can’t I, my little chick?”

Ned smiles as Edda throws her arms around his neck and nods enthusiastically into his shoulder.

“Fine,” Lyn’s flat tone was at odds with the smirk on her lips, “but try not to use my daughter to avoid Lord Tully’s daughter. Actually, _no_ , please do.” She leans forward, laughing softly, to brush the hair out of his eyes. “You look a fright, Ned. Won’t do to have you scaring off your little trout.” Turns to take her leave. “Now, be good, _the both of you_.”

—-

He lets Edda lead them to the godswood. Green, warm, and sun dappled, it is a good place. _Peaceful_. There is a heart tree, slender and sad eyed, and it settles something him to think of Lady Catelyn growing up with such a place. House Tully and their riverlords might not recognize the old gods but the gods have filled this space up regardless.

It makes him smile to think of some sister of the Front coming this far south. Of smearing her blood and prayers along the stones, now worn smooth. That while the southron gods stay locked within their sept, Ned’s gods have kept watch over this keep and its people.

Ned is so focused the wood, the quiet, on the little girl with a fist full of flowers and sunshine in her hair, that he doesn’t realize Lady Tully has sidled up next to him until she speaks.

”There is not much of a resemblance between you and your brother.”

”No,” bold, handsome, laughing Brandon, “he takes after our father’s mother, who was a Locke.”

Marna Locke who had held her other grandchildren to Brandon’s standard and found them sadly lacking. Marna Locke who had thankfully been buried long before her favorite’s disastrous ride South.

”You do not seem to act much like him either.”

Lady Tully’s voice is placid, her expression serene. She watches him watch little Edda and says nothing.

“I was there when she was born,” he finally settles on, chin jutting in Edda’s direction. “There had been some incident, down in the valley, and Lord Arryn had taken Robert with him. Lady Arryn took to the birthing bed a moon early. The birth was hard. Not _bad_ but hard. I wanted to stay with Jason, he was so scared, but she did not want to be alone. So I stayed and held her hand. It took...it took a long time and Lady Arryn was so tired after. Edda was so small. She looked like a newly hatched bird; all red and squirming and downy.”

Four years later and Ned can still remember the way she felt in his arms. The wonder of it. How she could be light and fragile as spun glass yet somehow possess enough strength to make him worry she would launch herself from his arms.

”Lady Arryn could not hold her for the longest time, so I did. In those first days, she never touched the ground. She was either with the wet nurse or in my arms.”

He had spent days in Lynesse’s room, Jason curled up beside him, and Edda in his arms. He had been so, so scared. All of five and ten and his heart felt too big, like it might burst out of his chest. Wanted to cry. Worried that if he did, he might never stop. To settle his fears, Ned had sung all the songs he knew. Told all the stories he had learned at his mother’s knee. And waited.

He waits now, wondering at what Lady Tully might say.

“The gods, it seems, have such an odd sense of humor, Lord Eddard. I carried my babes safe inside me. And for that moment in time, they belonged to me. _Only me_.” Lady Tully’s voice is so calm, so even, that Ned cannot bear to look at her. “And then they come screaming into this world and every moon’s turn, every nameday, they slip further from the circle of your protection.”

A shriek pierces the air as Edda stumbles then rights herself with a wobbly smile.

”I want you to think about the love you bear that little girl. I want you to think of what you would do, were someone to hurt her.” Slender white fingers grasp his sleeves, surprising him with their strength. “I want you to think of that when you take my daughter to wife.”

”My lady, I...”

”One day you will take my little Cat to the North. But not yet, not today. There is not anything I would not do for my children, my lord. I want you to think of that.”

Ned turns then but Lady Tully has clearly dismissed him. He can hear Edda shouting, _Neddie, look!_ , and he forces himself to loosen his jaw, let his shoulders drop. Walks to his little chick with a wan smile quirking up his lips. Wonders if Lady Tully ever cornered Brandon, ever threatened him with that same lovely smile, and does his best to put it out of mind.

He would set the realm on fire for that little girl and does not doubt that Lady Tully, for all her grace and poise, would not hesitate to do the same for her own.

—-

Evenings in the Great Hall, Ned sits besides his soon-to-be goodbrother and tries not to feel like a child banished for bad behavior. His father and Jon flank Lord Tully, Robert at Jon’s side, and the obvious dismissal sits bitter on his tongue. During the day, it is easier to convince himself that his father needs him elsewhere. That there are practical matters to tend to while his father speaks of war. Harder here, watching ale splash over the rim of Robert’s mug as he gestures wildly.

Too quiet. Too somber. Too careful. Forever too much and, at the same time, never enough.

He had argued with his father, hadn’t he, when he learned of the plan to help quell the unrest in Gulltown. Ned had swallowed all of his fear, his uncertainty, and kept his voice steady while suggesting that _he_ be the one to lead the attack. After all, Ned knew the Vale. Had crossed Gulltown a hundred times over while following Robert, while searching out Robert to drag him back the mountain. He knew the men; had drank and sparred and traveled with them. It wasn’t enough. _Ned_ was _never_ enough.

Harder still to not think of Lady Catelyn, of how disappointing a replacement she must find him. Wonders if she had been given any time to mourn his brother, the life she might have had with Brandon. Wonders if she has had anyone to talk to or if she has been as alone in her grief as he has been.

Ned wants to talk to her. Imagines asking her how she is feeling. Assuring her that he will prove himself a worthy husband. _Words are wind_ , Aunt Branda often said, _watch what people do, not what they say they will do._ So he squashes the urge to seek her out, to find comfort in her reassurance, and turns to Lord Edmure instead. There will be time enough for it, after all, once they have married.

—-

Ned spends the morning of his wedding in front of a fire, in a copper tub filled with water as hot as he can stand it. He knows he should do something, _anything_ , but even scrubbing his face seems like an impossible effort. He never wanted this: Brandon’s position, Brandon’s responsibilities, Brandon’s lovely bride. A peaceful life, a family, maybe a keep of his own someday; those were the things he thought to ask of the old gods. Not this. _Never this._

He sits for so long, watching the flames flicker, that it is truly a miracle that he has his breeches on when Lynesse comes bustling through the door.

“ _Bidh na math_...gods be good, Lyn,” he finally manages once the shock has worn off, “I could have been...” Cannot say it. Can. Not. Refuses to even think on it.

”Oh, Ned,” she shoots him a look of utter disappointment as she directs everything to her liking, “there has been a man on your door all morning.” Lyn waves her maids away with casual imperviousness, looking every inch a highborn lady even in her simple day gown. “Now, sit down and let me have a look at you.”

Ned sits. This woman has been ordering him around for over half his life, since he was a boy of eight. Knows well enough how pointless it would be to argue. He is not the least bit surprised when she drapes a cloth around his shoulders and starts combing through his damp hair. Remembers greeting her in the bailey, remembers her taking his appearance with a critical eye. Even when she had only been Jon’s betrothed, Lynesse had been determined to bend the world to her liking. The years had only strengthened her resolve.

“Do you remember my wedding?” She waits a beat as she lifts, snips, considers. “I was so scared. Jon had sworn, _to me_ , that he would wait. But I knew well enough that once the septon declared us joined together, he could do as he pleased.”

Months of listening to whispers, little pieces of gossip, had left Ned seething. He was angry at Lord Hightower for selling his daughter to a man old enough to be her grandfather. Angrier still at the pious men and Southron lords who found it acceptable, even enviable. Worse, he felt betrayed by Jon. That he had thought this man, his foster father, was good and honorable and he was actually just like everyone else south of the Neck.

“But he had you escort me from the hall before some drunken lord could call for the bedding. And then he slept in that great ugly chair before the fire while you, Robert, and I played hide-the-treasure and spin-the-sword until dawn.” She lets out a huff of a laugh before continuing. “I would have willing done my duty that night. I thought myself a woman grown. I thought any price was worth paying in order to become Lady Arryn.”

She had told him once, when they had drank too much of the mead his mother had sent for his birthday. Her sister Alerie had caught the eye of Mace Tyrell and that he was already half in love with her. That she had been determined to be the wife of some Lord Paramount, to be equal with her sister. How, after declaring her intention to wed Lord Arryn and give him a son, she had never waivered. Even after her father had insisted on a true marriage for fear that Lord Arryn might die before getting a son on her.

“Father would have let me wait for a love match. That is something not all highborn children can say. But I knew that love was no guarantee of full larders, much less silks and jewels and gold. I thought myself to be so smart, so practical. _So superior_ to all those little girls who wanted to wait around for a shining knight. For true love. What is a love match to being Lady Arryn? I would have done my duty and it would have killed a part of me. I was so very lucky I did not have to.”

Lyn falls silent as she turns her attention to his beard. Ned concentrates on the feel of the wet comb, the slip, snag, slide of it. Does not want to think of his own impending wedding night. When the raven had arrived, announcing Brandon’s death, he had packed his hopes and dreams away. He had realized how foolish he had been to think he was safe as a second son. That, in this, he was as much at his father’s mercy as Brandon and Lyanna had been.

There would be no Northern lady to take him as her lord husband, to cloak him and fill her House with children. There would be no violet eyes Dornishwoman who danced like she could float on air. He would wed the woman who was to have been his brother’s wife and he would do his duty by her. _Willingness_ meant nothing in the face of his father’s commands.

”She is a good girl, your Lady Catelyn. A Tully from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. She will do her duty without a word of protest.” Lynesse steps back, holds out a mirror, and Ned is pleased she didn’t completely shear him. Allows himself a moment to find some peace in her touch, as she smooths her thumb across his cheek. “Ned, it is okay to want more than that. It is okay to want to build something more with your lady wife. And, I think, you will find yourself surprised at what your wife may wish to build with you.”

She leaves then and Ned watches as she closes the door softly behind her. For a moment, all he can do is sit and stare at that closed door. Knows that Lyn has held Robert and the rest off as long as she could. Prepares himself for what comes next.

“ _Biodh na diathan math_ ,” he prays. Against his better judgement, Ned tucks away a secret wish within his heart. “ _And may we find love in each other._ “

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I firmly believe that Northerners are tactile people and are all about physical affection. I also believe that after living in the Vale for eight years, that behavior “rubbed off” on the Arryns and Robert as well. I have actually valid reasons for this line of thought but also I just wanted to, okay?
> 
> So. Would you believe this chapter finally got written all because I wanted to write wedding night porn featuring Ned and Catelyn as awkward virgins? Because that is exactly how this got started. I was like, okay, let’s have a short prologue where Ned gets embarrassed because everyone wants to make sure he knows where to put it and then porn. And like anything I have ever written, feelings got involved and this happened. It probably works better, thematically, given my style so far in the series but I also kind of wanted some levity before things get serious.
> 
> I am planning on things getting explicit next chapter but I have planned a lot of things over the past year that never came to fruition. If I do end up writing about the wedding night, I’ll clearly mark it and you’ll be able to skip over it just fine if you so choose. 
> 
> I have said before that I see a lot of parallels between Ned and Sansa. I firmly believe that, in his marriage, Ned is the romantic one. Although his thoughts come across differently from his daughter’s, this is a man who believes in absolutes. In true knights and honor and right triumphing over wrong. He is introspective and feels things deeply. And, at this point in the story, he is nineteen years old and is not weighed down with a lifetime’s worth of guilt and secrets.
> 
> I have always found it interesting how little Ned thinks of his father in canon. I think it is telling that whenever he struggles in his role as Lord Stark, his thoughts turn to Brandon who was heir but never lord. I am sure a large part of it has to do with his fostering between eight and sixteen, Jon Arryn was his formative father figure, but I can’t help but feel like at least some of it has to do with Rickard being a crap parent. Here we have Ned as very much his mother’s son, with a deep relationship with a woman he’s known since childhood; that leaves a mark on a person. In this case, for the better.
> 
> Things that throughly amused me while writing this chapter: Lyarra giving Ned lube and some sex education, Minisa giving Ned a very polite “shovel talk,” and that Lyarra’s nickname for Ned is “puppy” (and that Ned replicates that with Edda). In case you missed it but because Lysa is set to become the next Lady Yronwood, it is Edmure and Edda whose marriage will join House Tully and House Arryn. I have a lot of thoughts on GRRM not using proxy marriages in Asoiaf and, by god, I was going to include at least one. Jon and Lyn’s kids will continue to exist as background characters, mostly because I have enough canon characters to work with without building up OCs.
> 
> Also, for clarification, some of our “ripples” from the divergence include: 
> 
> • Barbrey is heir to House Ryswell. Bethany still marries Roose Bolton and, as such, abdicates her position to become Lady Bolton.  
> • In canon Ethan Glover, Kyle Royce, Elbert Arryn, and Jeffory Mallister follow Brandon to KL. Here it is Erena Glover, Ethan’s older sister and Glover heir, who makes the journey.  
> • Canon ages mostly apply. I have Jon Arryn’s dob in 220 AC, making him 62. Lynesse is 24. Her children with Jon are 7 (Jason), 4 (Edda), and 9/10ish months (Hugo).
> 
> Next up: the wedding night. I continue to have zero interest in writing battle scenes (sorry not sorry). The war continues and Rickard Stark’s continued existence leads to changes wrt Ned’s arrival in KL.


End file.
